What's next? I'll tell you what's next, waiting for what's next. That's what's next.
I assumed that as I got older and more and more time has passed through me and onto the other side of my personal ledger that I would become wiser, more calm and refined and that I'd develop some kind of patience.
Well thing is, I keep getting older and I keep waiting for this patience to develop and nothing seems to happen. And the worst part is, I don't wait well. I'm very impatient. It's a horrible and vicious circle.
Even that nasaly, toothpick Axel Rose had some patience. See his lyrics below -
"Said, woman, take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
Said, sugar, make it slow
And we come together fine
All we need is just a little patience
(patience)
Mm, yeah"
Mm, yeah indeed. Seems like he was blessed (and his fans for that matter. How long have they been waiting for the next G'N'R record "Chinese Democracy", 8 years. Besides being an asinine name, who really cares about them any more but I digress, back to the point) with the patience gene. Along with the gene that lets him look good in jeans. As a Corbeil I have neither. I do not possess the patience gene and I don't look good in jeans. It's a horrible truth about my life but it's one I'm apparently going to have to live with. The jeans I can live with out, baggy pants and hoodys for me any day, but man I'd love some patience.
Everyday goes by and I have this overwhelming feeling that I'm missing out on something and if I don't go out and do something, anything RIGHT NOW, that I'm going to be left on the outside looking in. Even as I write this I'm thinking about what I have to do for the rest of the day and how I could be doing some of it right now.
I'm friggin' constantly looking for new things to do, I'm never happy with what I have and what I have is plenty. Hell I've already changed careers twice and I wouldn't bet against a third sometime down the road. I can't just sit back, reflect on what I have take a deep breath and just relax. I feel that relaxing would be a good thing, but I don't know cause I can't do it.
In this world of drive through restaurants, fifteen second flash commercials and instant gratification, we are trained to want everything right now and we not to wait for it. The media put out these teaser campaigns to get the public salivating and clawing to get the next big thing. Then they act suprised that everyone is downloading pirated movies and music cause they can't sit on their hands and wait the extra three weeks until it's official release.
Then there are those fuckers who have to be the first on the plane. Even though they clearly say, "We will be boarding from the back of the plane first". There is inevitably some jerk ass who has a front row seat and he rushes on to the plane and starts loading his clearly oversized bags into the overhead compartment as all the other passengers try to squeeze by him and get to their seats at the back of the plane. Where does he think he's going? Does he think that if he gets on the plane first that he's going to get to his destination before everyone else? WE ARE ALL GOING TO GET THERE AT THE SAME TIME ASSHOLE! God I hate those people.
Anyhoo, I guess all I'm saying is that I, nay we all, could do ourselves a favour and just take ol' Axel's advice and take it slow. Cause it'll work it self out fine.
So what's next?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Sunday. That's what's next.
The recuperative powers of a good Sunday have been well documented through the annals of history. From the beginning of time as we know it (or as it has been told to us through the kaleidoscope of a religious lens) Sunday has been the day of rest. From Genesis 2:2 "By the seventh day God completed His work which He had done, and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done". (What a wonderfully redundant and inefficient sentence).
Hell, even those crazy Romans who decided it best to off kill that same God's son, knew a thing or two about the restorative powers of a good Sunday. Knowing that all things come to life and live off the rays of that giant gas ball in the sky, they decided out of a show of respect, to name the first day of the week after the big yellow floating aspirin.
Now for an even more difficult and awkward segue, the Germans (who also happened to have invented the Aspirin) also had a hand in naming the day we so love to be lazy on. "The actual word "Sunday" is derived from the German word "Sonntag" (and they likely got it from the Scandinavians). These folk too placed a great deal of importance on the sun. Some tribes of these Germanic peoples invaded England in the 500's or so. They were known as the Angles and the Saxons. The old English word was "sunnandaeg" and it changed over time to become our current, "Sunday"".
But enough of the history lesson. History is for suckers and old people. And personally I don't want to be thinking on a Sunday.
Sunday's may have always been the day of rest, but I think the greatest invention and leap forward in the field of resting and relaxation, was the invention of the sofa...or couch...or chesterfield...whatever.
Sunday's on their own are great. Sofa's on their own are great. But together they create one of Universes' most powerful and destructive phenomena. The black hole. To quote the absolutely fabulous Wikopedia. "A black hole is an object predicted by general relativity,[1] with a gravitational field so powerful that even electromagnetic radiation (such as light) cannot escape its pull.[2]".
Once your ass hits the couch on a quite, sunny Sunday I defy anyone to "escape it's pull". Even if through some quirk in the inner workings of you television set, both your remote and your manual controls become unusable and the set some how freezes on TBS and they are showing back to back presentations of Martin Lawrence's Blue Streak, I bet, nay I know, you can't get up to avoid watching that absolute waste celluloid. Your best bet at that point is to just turn your head, pull the pillow over your ears, the blanket over your eyes and gently sob until you fall asleep. Trust me, it works.
Another great advancement made in the overall enjoyment of a good Sunday was the invention of the sandwich. Hell, even today I had a delectable ham, turkey, cheese, tomato, cheese, onion, cheese, red pepper, cheese, turkey, mayo, cheese sandwich on a lightly toasted bagel. It was beautiful. And on the side a wonderfully complex and flavourful Fuller's London Porter. In all it's silky smooth, coffee and chocolaty glory. Pouring out with a exquisite and brilliant creamy yet sturdy rocky head. It was the perfect accompaniment for the perfect sandwich on a perfect Sunday.
And as I get older these Sunday's become more and more important to my general well being. Knowing full well that the next sunrise will bring the headaches and stresses of another work week, it's becoming increasingly necessary for me to shut off my mind, relax my body and let the Sunday massage me back to health.
So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go down stairs, turn on the boob tube, breach the event horizon and create myself a black hole.
So what's next?
The recuperative powers of a good Sunday have been well documented through the annals of history. From the beginning of time as we know it (or as it has been told to us through the kaleidoscope of a religious lens) Sunday has been the day of rest. From Genesis 2:2 "By the seventh day God completed His work which He had done, and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done". (What a wonderfully redundant and inefficient sentence).
Hell, even those crazy Romans who decided it best to off kill that same God's son, knew a thing or two about the restorative powers of a good Sunday. Knowing that all things come to life and live off the rays of that giant gas ball in the sky, they decided out of a show of respect, to name the first day of the week after the big yellow floating aspirin.
Now for an even more difficult and awkward segue, the Germans (who also happened to have invented the Aspirin) also had a hand in naming the day we so love to be lazy on. "The actual word "Sunday" is derived from the German word "Sonntag" (and they likely got it from the Scandinavians). These folk too placed a great deal of importance on the sun. Some tribes of these Germanic peoples invaded England in the 500's or so. They were known as the Angles and the Saxons. The old English word was "sunnandaeg" and it changed over time to become our current, "Sunday"".
But enough of the history lesson. History is for suckers and old people. And personally I don't want to be thinking on a Sunday.
Sunday's may have always been the day of rest, but I think the greatest invention and leap forward in the field of resting and relaxation, was the invention of the sofa...or couch...or chesterfield...whatever.
Sunday's on their own are great. Sofa's on their own are great. But together they create one of Universes' most powerful and destructive phenomena. The black hole. To quote the absolutely fabulous Wikopedia. "A black hole is an object predicted by general relativity,[1] with a gravitational field so powerful that even electromagnetic radiation (such as light) cannot escape its pull.[2]".
Once your ass hits the couch on a quite, sunny Sunday I defy anyone to "escape it's pull". Even if through some quirk in the inner workings of you television set, both your remote and your manual controls become unusable and the set some how freezes on TBS and they are showing back to back presentations of Martin Lawrence's Blue Streak, I bet, nay I know, you can't get up to avoid watching that absolute waste celluloid. Your best bet at that point is to just turn your head, pull the pillow over your ears, the blanket over your eyes and gently sob until you fall asleep. Trust me, it works.
Another great advancement made in the overall enjoyment of a good Sunday was the invention of the sandwich. Hell, even today I had a delectable ham, turkey, cheese, tomato, cheese, onion, cheese, red pepper, cheese, turkey, mayo, cheese sandwich on a lightly toasted bagel. It was beautiful. And on the side a wonderfully complex and flavourful Fuller's London Porter. In all it's silky smooth, coffee and chocolaty glory. Pouring out with a exquisite and brilliant creamy yet sturdy rocky head. It was the perfect accompaniment for the perfect sandwich on a perfect Sunday.
And as I get older these Sunday's become more and more important to my general well being. Knowing full well that the next sunrise will bring the headaches and stresses of another work week, it's becoming increasingly necessary for me to shut off my mind, relax my body and let the Sunday massage me back to health.
So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go down stairs, turn on the boob tube, breach the event horizon and create myself a black hole.
So what's next?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Tournament Beers
What's next? I'll tell you what's next, the Hamilton Barton Double Rinks Hockey Tournament. That's what's next.
As far back as I can remember hockey tournaments have always been a special occasions. There is the initial "looking-forward-to-the-weekend" phase, which usually entails discussing the impending festivities with your teammates. Then there is the actual game day phase, which usually means driving to some backwater, dog patch town, showing up to the arena, scoping out the usually terrible and barley usable facilities, finding out what division you are in and what other backwater dog patch town teams you will be playing.
When I was younger we travelled to dozens of small towns all over Ontario to play in tournaments. In fact most of my geographical knowledge of this province was gained through traveling to these towns for either hockey or baseball tournaments. I mean really, why else would I ever have to travel to Minden, Coldwater, Burks Falls, Tilsonbourg or Beaverton. If it wasn't for tournaments I probably wouldn't have ever seen these places and there amazingly inadequate arenas.
Tournaments also meant that my parents usually stringent eating out rules became a little more lax. Under normal circumstance there was only a snowballs chance in hell that we would get to eat at MacDonald's or any other of the many grease laden fast food eateries pocked across this province. But for whatever reason when ever we were away at a tournament my parents eased up, opened their wallets and treated us to these gastronomic gifts. Truly this was something to look forward too.
The hockey was pretty important too, back then we actually took pride in playing well and maybe walking away with another gold painted, plastic hockey player caught in mid stride and positioned on top of a faux-wood trophy. These trophies were a serious source of pride for young would be NHLers. They would be strategically positioned in the most visible area of your bedroom so that when friends or relatives were over they could clearly see them and you could brag about your victories. And if you were very lucky and played really well you may even end up walking away with an MVP medallion for your efforts. These were truly special and hard to come by. They were usually bronze coin-like-medallions hung off a red-white and blue ribbon. And they were considered the show pieces of your trophy shelf.
But alas this playing for pride and bragging rights seems to have faded into distant memory.
Now instead of playing to win you usually play just to not look bad. You're playing for respectability instead of pride. And the main focus of the tournament has shifted from the hockey and to the festivities (and by festivities I mean drinking) after, before and during the game.
For whatever reason all the rules go out the window when you're at a hockey tournament. Normally you wouldn't start drinking at 10am and continue sporadically throughout the day depending on your schedule. But at tournament none of this matters. The first beers are cracked as soon as you wake and depending on how you do and how far you get in the tournament don't stop flowing until the wee hours of the morning or quite possibly deep into the next day.
For the most part we have a good tournament team. We've won our share of tournaments and walked away with a number of tacky gifts like tee-shirts, hats and hockey bags. Thus proving to all that we can play well both drunk and hungover. But the tournament this weekend was exceptionally bad. We didn't score a goal until the second period of our second game and ended up losing all three games to teams that under normal circumstances we would have beat hands down. It may have had something to do with the amount of beer we consumed between games but I hate to bad mouth beer so I won't. I'll just say we played badly and we're getting older.
As bad as we played and at times looked like we didn't even want to be playing at all, I still looked forward to this tournament and I still kept up my tournament eating habits and ate horribly (a strict diet of Nachos, wings and chili for three days) but it has become blatently apparent that the hockey has definitely taken a back seat to the beer and bonding with team mates.
Luckily we can redeem ourselves at our next tournament in April. I've already marked it on my calendar and I'm starting to feel the anticipation for the weekend building.
So what's next?
As far back as I can remember hockey tournaments have always been a special occasions. There is the initial "looking-forward-to-the-weekend" phase, which usually entails discussing the impending festivities with your teammates. Then there is the actual game day phase, which usually means driving to some backwater, dog patch town, showing up to the arena, scoping out the usually terrible and barley usable facilities, finding out what division you are in and what other backwater dog patch town teams you will be playing.
When I was younger we travelled to dozens of small towns all over Ontario to play in tournaments. In fact most of my geographical knowledge of this province was gained through traveling to these towns for either hockey or baseball tournaments. I mean really, why else would I ever have to travel to Minden, Coldwater, Burks Falls, Tilsonbourg or Beaverton. If it wasn't for tournaments I probably wouldn't have ever seen these places and there amazingly inadequate arenas.
Tournaments also meant that my parents usually stringent eating out rules became a little more lax. Under normal circumstance there was only a snowballs chance in hell that we would get to eat at MacDonald's or any other of the many grease laden fast food eateries pocked across this province. But for whatever reason when ever we were away at a tournament my parents eased up, opened their wallets and treated us to these gastronomic gifts. Truly this was something to look forward too.
The hockey was pretty important too, back then we actually took pride in playing well and maybe walking away with another gold painted, plastic hockey player caught in mid stride and positioned on top of a faux-wood trophy. These trophies were a serious source of pride for young would be NHLers. They would be strategically positioned in the most visible area of your bedroom so that when friends or relatives were over they could clearly see them and you could brag about your victories. And if you were very lucky and played really well you may even end up walking away with an MVP medallion for your efforts. These were truly special and hard to come by. They were usually bronze coin-like-medallions hung off a red-white and blue ribbon. And they were considered the show pieces of your trophy shelf.
But alas this playing for pride and bragging rights seems to have faded into distant memory.
Now instead of playing to win you usually play just to not look bad. You're playing for respectability instead of pride. And the main focus of the tournament has shifted from the hockey and to the festivities (and by festivities I mean drinking) after, before and during the game.
For whatever reason all the rules go out the window when you're at a hockey tournament. Normally you wouldn't start drinking at 10am and continue sporadically throughout the day depending on your schedule. But at tournament none of this matters. The first beers are cracked as soon as you wake and depending on how you do and how far you get in the tournament don't stop flowing until the wee hours of the morning or quite possibly deep into the next day.
For the most part we have a good tournament team. We've won our share of tournaments and walked away with a number of tacky gifts like tee-shirts, hats and hockey bags. Thus proving to all that we can play well both drunk and hungover. But the tournament this weekend was exceptionally bad. We didn't score a goal until the second period of our second game and ended up losing all three games to teams that under normal circumstances we would have beat hands down. It may have had something to do with the amount of beer we consumed between games but I hate to bad mouth beer so I won't. I'll just say we played badly and we're getting older.
As bad as we played and at times looked like we didn't even want to be playing at all, I still looked forward to this tournament and I still kept up my tournament eating habits and ate horribly (a strict diet of Nachos, wings and chili for three days) but it has become blatently apparent that the hockey has definitely taken a back seat to the beer and bonding with team mates.
Luckily we can redeem ourselves at our next tournament in April. I've already marked it on my calendar and I'm starting to feel the anticipation for the weekend building.
So what's next?
Sunday, February 4, 2007
A Return to Arms
What's next? I'll tell you what's next. Hemingway, that's what's next.
I gave up Hemingway long ago. Those quick, punchy sentences and harsh, "reality-of-life" endings put me off his novels after only a few readings (I think it was A Farewell to Arms that delivered the death blow). His books made me deal with issues and emotions I didn't want to face and was certainly ill-equipped to deal with at the time. So I made a quick, cutting decision the kind only a youthful man can make and I cut him out of my literary pursuits with the tact and precision of a axe-murderer.
I managed to keep away from his work until late last year, when after constant pestering from a friend I read through a number of his short stories. They we wonderful of course and didn't carry the emotional weight of his novels so I decided maybe I'll pick up another of his books.
So last week I picked up "A Movable Feast" and for lack of a better term, I couldn't put it down. Each chapter was brilliant in it's economical use of words. Using them sparingly, he saved them up, like he saved the Francs of his poor Paris youth. So few were the words that each one was wrought with thought and emotion. I loved it but it depressed me. Every time I read writers reflecting on their youth and how they became writers, it always makes me wish I was a better writer. And how does that saying go, "You're no longer young when your dreams turn into regrets?". Something like that.
I don't necessarily regret anything, but reading Hemingway retell his poor, living-by-the-skin-of your-teeth-youth in Paris, it makes me wish I had a romantic time where I can look back and say this is how I became me. I lived through this hardship and became the man I am now.
So far my life, as good and as fortunate as it's been, just sort of flows along nicely. Sure there have been bumps and missteps, but I always seem to come out on top. Well, I guess that's nothing to complain about.
But as I sat there last weekend at my first Master Brewers of America Association meeting, reading my novel in the hotel bar as all the other members, shook hands, slap backs and say things like, "Well here comes trouble", every time an old friend walked into the bar, I'm was torn between regret and optimism.
I regret that I haven't really changed. Certainly my life and the course it's take over the last few years has changed (and mostly for the better), but my personality hasn't. I'm still overly shy in situations where I have to meet new people. I'm not one to approach a new group of people, introduce myself and then be the life of the party. I need to be introduced, I need the other person to make the first steps before I integrate myself into their group. I still don't have the confidence to make "first contact".
But the optimism on the other hand stemmed from the fact that I could still make that change in my personality. I had a new opportunity here to make and impression on this group of people. I could walk up to them and introduce myself. I could make the first move.
Of course I don't I sat at my table, drank my beer and read my novel. Electing again to wait and be introduced at dinner before I become comfortable enough to talk to them. Then eventually when I've got to know them enough and feel more comfortable I'll change into myself and inevitably months down the road they'll say something along the lines of, "Wow, when I first met you, you were so quiet and shy. I didn't think I'd really get along with you. It's like you're a totally different person now."
That's pretty much how it goes.
But I guess it's worked so far.
It's funny though, I can't introduce my self to people on a one on one basis, but I have no trouble talking and presenting in front of large groups. I taught my first "Beer School" lesson yesterday at the brewery and it went swimmingly (up until the end when the heat exchange pooped out on my and I had to toss my batch of beer).
I don't really get nervous in front of a large group of people, maybe I'm a glory hound and crave attention, I don't know. But public speaking has never been a problem for me. It's the speaking in public thing I have to work on.
So maybe these are my hardships? Maybe they aren't as romantic as Paris and the mountains or Europe. Maybe they aren't riddled with the names of literary heavy weights from the past century. But they are still my hardships. And when I'm sixty and these hardships have had time to age and gather dust in the hallways of my memory. And I decide to brush them off and look back on my youth and retell my story, maybe I'll see how they crafted and shaped me into the man I've become. But I guess I'll just have to wait for that.
So what's next?
I gave up Hemingway long ago. Those quick, punchy sentences and harsh, "reality-of-life" endings put me off his novels after only a few readings (I think it was A Farewell to Arms that delivered the death blow). His books made me deal with issues and emotions I didn't want to face and was certainly ill-equipped to deal with at the time. So I made a quick, cutting decision the kind only a youthful man can make and I cut him out of my literary pursuits with the tact and precision of a axe-murderer.
I managed to keep away from his work until late last year, when after constant pestering from a friend I read through a number of his short stories. They we wonderful of course and didn't carry the emotional weight of his novels so I decided maybe I'll pick up another of his books.
So last week I picked up "A Movable Feast" and for lack of a better term, I couldn't put it down. Each chapter was brilliant in it's economical use of words. Using them sparingly, he saved them up, like he saved the Francs of his poor Paris youth. So few were the words that each one was wrought with thought and emotion. I loved it but it depressed me. Every time I read writers reflecting on their youth and how they became writers, it always makes me wish I was a better writer. And how does that saying go, "You're no longer young when your dreams turn into regrets?". Something like that.
I don't necessarily regret anything, but reading Hemingway retell his poor, living-by-the-skin-of your-teeth-youth in Paris, it makes me wish I had a romantic time where I can look back and say this is how I became me. I lived through this hardship and became the man I am now.
So far my life, as good and as fortunate as it's been, just sort of flows along nicely. Sure there have been bumps and missteps, but I always seem to come out on top. Well, I guess that's nothing to complain about.
But as I sat there last weekend at my first Master Brewers of America Association meeting, reading my novel in the hotel bar as all the other members, shook hands, slap backs and say things like, "Well here comes trouble", every time an old friend walked into the bar, I'm was torn between regret and optimism.
I regret that I haven't really changed. Certainly my life and the course it's take over the last few years has changed (and mostly for the better), but my personality hasn't. I'm still overly shy in situations where I have to meet new people. I'm not one to approach a new group of people, introduce myself and then be the life of the party. I need to be introduced, I need the other person to make the first steps before I integrate myself into their group. I still don't have the confidence to make "first contact".
But the optimism on the other hand stemmed from the fact that I could still make that change in my personality. I had a new opportunity here to make and impression on this group of people. I could walk up to them and introduce myself. I could make the first move.
Of course I don't I sat at my table, drank my beer and read my novel. Electing again to wait and be introduced at dinner before I become comfortable enough to talk to them. Then eventually when I've got to know them enough and feel more comfortable I'll change into myself and inevitably months down the road they'll say something along the lines of, "Wow, when I first met you, you were so quiet and shy. I didn't think I'd really get along with you. It's like you're a totally different person now."
That's pretty much how it goes.
But I guess it's worked so far.
It's funny though, I can't introduce my self to people on a one on one basis, but I have no trouble talking and presenting in front of large groups. I taught my first "Beer School" lesson yesterday at the brewery and it went swimmingly (up until the end when the heat exchange pooped out on my and I had to toss my batch of beer).
I don't really get nervous in front of a large group of people, maybe I'm a glory hound and crave attention, I don't know. But public speaking has never been a problem for me. It's the speaking in public thing I have to work on.
So maybe these are my hardships? Maybe they aren't as romantic as Paris and the mountains or Europe. Maybe they aren't riddled with the names of literary heavy weights from the past century. But they are still my hardships. And when I'm sixty and these hardships have had time to age and gather dust in the hallways of my memory. And I decide to brush them off and look back on my youth and retell my story, maybe I'll see how they crafted and shaped me into the man I've become. But I guess I'll just have to wait for that.
So what's next?
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